Loving the sea, that gave them fish and nourished their lives, they had
never seen such clear eyes, like the color that birthed them and upheld
them all of their days. The sea and azul sky is so prominent on island
people’s hearts, that the newness of a babbling baby and soon to be
running white island girl, gave novelty and joy into a difficult life.
For I loved them, from the beginning, something the white culture
finds hard to do, came naturally to a young child.
When we relocated to the United States, disorientation started. Where
were the people of color? Who would love me like they did? Not our
isolated American neighbors doing ‘their American thing”, in contrast
to the African culture that lived separately in a strong community of
neighbors and family. This was not
happening in our, could we dare say, ‘normal’ culture?
Reaching back into the chronicles of ones mind, I can recall no one
taking much account of this new family in an urban development,
pilled high with cement sidewalks, TV. Antennas, always busy, things
to do, living in homes with windows that look in.
So, every Saturday, rather then playing with a Barbie, I sat on my
carport and waited and watch for the garbage truck. No one waited with
me, would the other parents let their little girls wait alongside with me
for, who knows what? Let’s face it: it was the 50’s and social
interchange was not in vogue. And personally, I don’t feel it has not
come in vogue, regardless of the amount of
bussing that happens to children. This is probably one of the reasons we
continue to fall in despair and sadness, for, people of color are not like
us, is this not true?
Howbeit, their I sat, alone, waiting, hands clasped over my knees for
the garbage truck. I could hear it lumbering down our street and just
the sound would bring a twinkle to my eyes. As soon as it stopped in
front of our house I would jump as the garbage man would come
walking through my carport, where I now stood, excited, looking for
some recognition of love in their eyes. I must admit, I only got the
curious glance and fear, as in the 50’s little white girls were not to talk
to blacks.
This did not stop my love of people of color. I was probably too young
and innocent to understand the look of fear in their eyes, for I was
gleefully caught up in the moment. I ran happily by them, my short
legs skipping to match their manly strides to the back of our home,
chattering with excitement, as they began dragging our garbage out to
the truck. First one can, then the other. Both of us, like a dance of wild
flowers in a foreign part of a pampered garden, we gathered more
garbage.
When our family’s garbage was empty, off we would go to the neighbor’
s stored, sour and spilling cans. This continued around the block, me
waiting for conversation or a hug and them wishing I would not bring
attention to an uncomfortable political and fragile situation.
Thus, I lost my Barbie years to the garbage truck, and I think it made
me that much better! Today, the garbage ministry is one of my very
favorite and the first started on this island.
Thank you for your continued support to provide a full hot meal and
fellowship to what has been coined ‘modern day leapers. If you haven’t
had the privilege to visit this ministry with me, I pray that God gives
you such a grace in your life, for Christ choose the down trodden and
broken, and we have much to learn from them. Recalling his last
words and commands to us, “feed my sheep”, said three times, probably
due to how stubborn we are and continually choose the care of self
rather then others. Yes, I pray that we can find a bit of time to fill up in
the garbage heaps of this world!
-by, Jana Amelingmeier
never seen such clear eyes, like the color that birthed them and upheld
them all of their days. The sea and azul sky is so prominent on island
people’s hearts, that the newness of a babbling baby and soon to be
running white island girl, gave novelty and joy into a difficult life.
For I loved them, from the beginning, something the white culture
finds hard to do, came naturally to a young child.
When we relocated to the United States, disorientation started. Where
were the people of color? Who would love me like they did? Not our
isolated American neighbors doing ‘their American thing”, in contrast
to the African culture that lived separately in a strong community of
neighbors and family. This was not
happening in our, could we dare say, ‘normal’ culture?
Reaching back into the chronicles of ones mind, I can recall no one
taking much account of this new family in an urban development,
pilled high with cement sidewalks, TV. Antennas, always busy, things
to do, living in homes with windows that look in.
So, every Saturday, rather then playing with a Barbie, I sat on my
carport and waited and watch for the garbage truck. No one waited with
me, would the other parents let their little girls wait alongside with me
for, who knows what? Let’s face it: it was the 50’s and social
interchange was not in vogue. And personally, I don’t feel it has not
come in vogue, regardless of the amount of
bussing that happens to children. This is probably one of the reasons we
continue to fall in despair and sadness, for, people of color are not like
us, is this not true?
Howbeit, their I sat, alone, waiting, hands clasped over my knees for
the garbage truck. I could hear it lumbering down our street and just
the sound would bring a twinkle to my eyes. As soon as it stopped in
front of our house I would jump as the garbage man would come
walking through my carport, where I now stood, excited, looking for
some recognition of love in their eyes. I must admit, I only got the
curious glance and fear, as in the 50’s little white girls were not to talk
to blacks.
This did not stop my love of people of color. I was probably too young
and innocent to understand the look of fear in their eyes, for I was
gleefully caught up in the moment. I ran happily by them, my short
legs skipping to match their manly strides to the back of our home,
chattering with excitement, as they began dragging our garbage out to
the truck. First one can, then the other. Both of us, like a dance of wild
flowers in a foreign part of a pampered garden, we gathered more
garbage.
When our family’s garbage was empty, off we would go to the neighbor’
s stored, sour and spilling cans. This continued around the block, me
waiting for conversation or a hug and them wishing I would not bring
attention to an uncomfortable political and fragile situation.
Thus, I lost my Barbie years to the garbage truck, and I think it made
me that much better! Today, the garbage ministry is one of my very
favorite and the first started on this island.
Thank you for your continued support to provide a full hot meal and
fellowship to what has been coined ‘modern day leapers. If you haven’t
had the privilege to visit this ministry with me, I pray that God gives
you such a grace in your life, for Christ choose the down trodden and
broken, and we have much to learn from them. Recalling his last
words and commands to us, “feed my sheep”, said three times, probably
due to how stubborn we are and continually choose the care of self
rather then others. Yes, I pray that we can find a bit of time to fill up in
the garbage heaps of this world!
-by, Jana Amelingmeier
A young girl and her garbage men
continued...
continued...
